


A Pervasive Silence

by lleaflet



Series: Gordon Freeman [1]
Category: Half-Life
Genre: Character Study, Pre-Canon, Selectively Mute Gordon Freeman, Slice of Life, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24641947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lleaflet/pseuds/lleaflet
Summary: Gordon Freeman takes a day off work to attend an appointment outside Black Mesa. He navigates everyday situations while trying not to seem like a dumb, tardy mute to everyone.----From the dawning look of understanding and sympathy on her face, Gordon was once again affirmed that it was instantly, readily accepted that it was a physical disability preventing him from speaking. That he was a normal guy despite not talking. That he didn't have a humiliating mental lock that had persisted since childhood.
Series: Gordon Freeman [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873141
Comments: 12
Kudos: 102





	A Pervasive Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ahillamon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahillamon/gifts).



Gordon Freeman sat at the bus stop at Black Mesa and was sweating. The temperature meter at the stop said 85 degrees, but his sweating had only a little to do with the heat.

He was determined to say hello to her this time. He had meticulously planned it ahead, as he always did: instead of taking the first bus of the day on a Saturday, which was always full of people because Black Mesa was in the middle of nowhere and distances were long and people had places to be, he'd take the last bus to Albuquerque on a Tuesday, when there was statistically the greatest chance of no one else booking it out of Black Mesa. Or, at least, hopefully he'd be the only one waiting in line for the first few minutes when she would drive onto the stop.

He glanced at the temperature meter that blinked out the Fahrenheit count and blinked in the time. He was ten minutes early still. Thus far he was alone.

His stomach was a nervous, tight knot, pulling his insides ever tighter. A substantial fear set in all his limbs. _Gordon,_ he grounded himself. _Gordon, you're not going to die. Your amygdalae are trying to take control, remember? Don't allow it: they're stupid and you are a rational, smart man._

Nothing was wrong. Yet everything was wrong. He was about to speak to her. He barely uttered a word to anyone outside his family and Dr. Kleiner, period. It just didn’t happen. Why was he attempting this? The only thing which was going to happen was that he’d trip on the bus stairs, hit his head and die, and only if he got lucky.

He wiped his sweaty forehead on his hand and puffed out a heavy huff of air. The sun was a sliver of light shining from behind the tall rock formations, but the heat wouldn’t let up in the concrete hell that was Black Mesa. Around him, he heard the bustle of machines moving boxes, the screech of the tramline tracks and the bustle from the basketball court. A car sped off into the distance. Shouts and hollers; somebody scored.

Okay, it was a pleasant evening, he was going out to enjoy some free time, there was no reason he'd be in anything but a good mood. He was loose and relaxed, just like any other guy from work on a holiday. He tested his throat muscles, which barely moved. He knew his voice would come out either as a squeak or a crack, but he also knew she wouldn't mind. They'd laugh it off, she'd put on Oprah on the radio, he could pat himself on the back for a job well done and they'd speed off to Albuquerque.

The bus approached on the road. _Ground yourself, Gordon, you got this_.

Through the bus’ windshield, he saw her smile at him and sign a 'hello'. He signed back.

The bus stopped and Gordon stood up to his trembling legs and grabbed his small luggage.

The door opened, and she greeted him with a signature sunny smile. " _¡Hola_ , Gordon!" her voice was a low and soothing rumble. Her brown hair was curled meticulously under the driver's cap, and her nails were as dark a red as her lips. She always took care in presenting herself the best she could; everyone deserved a little everyday luxury, as her motto went.

The smell of a sweet perfume wafting from the bus loosened him up. He stepped up to the door.

Behind him, he heard footsteps approaching. His smile froze. The footsteps stopped to wait in line after him.

Icy spikes went up and down from his toes to his jaw, which clenched tightly. His tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. He huffed through his nose, and entered the bus.

"Gordon?" he heard her ask, and he glanced at her, gave her a tight smile and sat in his usual spot on the second row, on the right side.

He watched through the window as a slow trickle of a handful of people entered the bus and leaned his cheek on his hand.

* * *

A bell above the door chimed as Gordon entered the low-budget hotel he’d reserved a room at. The botched phone call he’d made a week ago still embarrassed him. He hoped the same person wouldn’t be at the desk today. In truth, he’d wanted to ditch this hotel and book at another one, but he’d somehow managed to stammer his way through the call and reserve a room. He knew that, even if he were to call another establishment, it would have been the same shitshow all over. He had a room, and now he’d just have to live with the shame burning into his core. _Big scientist Gordon Freeman, who can’t even book a hotel room over a phone..._

A middle-aged man, who looked out of place with his slick and neat appearance in the less-than-average reception, looked up from his CRT monitor and smiled. “Welcome! _¡Bienvenidos!_ ”

 _Oh no_. Gordon recognized his voice. He felt his cheeks heat up and his limbs freeze. His one hand squeezed his trusty notepad, and the other squeezed the handle of his luggage.

The man blinked, and leaned towards him. “Uh, hello?”

Gordon swallowed with difficulty through his constricted throat and approached, shakily showing the notepad to the man and averting his gaze. The man read what Gordon had written on the paper, and leaned back.

“Um,” he seemed to try to recollect himself. Gordon could see in his eyes, during the look they shared, that he remembered his name, and remembered the phone call, how he had had to practically press the information out of Gordon. The man’s temper had flared some, and Gordon’s mind had answered the offence with frustrated muteness while he tried to wrangle his own voice to function. Now that they were face-to-face, neither wished to remain in the situation any longer than necessary.

“I, yes, so uh,” the man’s hands went to type on the keyboard. “Room for one, for tonight, yes? Name, uh,” he side-eyed the notepad, and Gordon showed it properly, wishing the ground would swallow him right up.

“Freeman, yes,” said the man, and typed away. Gordon studied the whirls in the wood of the desk in the awkward silence that followed.

Gordon was given some papers to sign and a bill to pay before he received the key, and the man jabbed his finger towards the door to the rooms. Clumsily, Gordon gathered his belongings and made for his room.

Once inside, he leaned against the closed door and as his shoulders relaxed, so did he feel his strength leaving him.

* * *

The bell above the door chimed as Gordon entered his favourite burger joint in the outskirts of Albuquerque city center. Few patrons sat at the tables in the small dining area decorated with warm earthen colours.

The chef, busy assembling burgers behind the desk, looked over her shoulder as Gordon approached and took a double take at him.

"Aah, friend!" she exclaimed in a thick Spanish accent. "I will be with you in a moment!"

The Chef (she had a name, but she introduced herself as Chef to everyone. Hence her restaurant's name, Chef's Burger) was an older woman with Mexican origin, with her wavy grey hair tucked under a stained white bandana and with grease smudges on her dress.

Chef whipped up the burgers, sent them on their way to the hungry customers and returned to Gordon at the desk.

"My friend, I am glad to see my burgers don’t bore you yet!" she smiled. Gordon smiled back. "What will you have? The usual?"

Gordon nodded.

Chef turned to work, when she abruptly turned back. “Oh, there is someone I’d like you to meet! Irma! _¡Irma, vete aquí!_ ”

A girl in her teens, dressed in an apron, came round the back wiping her hands. Before Chef even introduced her, Gordon could already see the familial resemblance in the brow lines and the set of her nose. Her hair was wavy, just like Chef’s.

“This,” Chef put her hands on Irma’s shoulders, “Is my granddaughter, Irma.”

“... _Buenos díaz_ ,” said Irma and rubbed her arm.

“She’s not very good at English yet, but that is not a problem! I thought you two would get along.”

Irma smiled sheepishly and tried for words. “... What is _you_ name?”

 _Gordon_ , he wanted to say as they stared at each other in silence and she was looking increasingly uncomfortable. _My name is Gordon, it's nice to meet you_.

"Erm, he can't speak. Some kind of -” Chef paused as she searched for the right word, and pointed towards her throat, “- damage, he said. Or, confirmed."

Gordon’s vocal chords functioned just fine. When he had first stepped foot in the restaurant, Chef had surmised he couldn’t speak, to which he had nodded, and apparently Chef had taken it as ‘damaged vocal chords’. Gordon found it was easier to just go with it. From the dawning look of understanding and sympathy on Irma’s face, Gordon was once again affirmed that it was instantly, readily accepted that it was a physical disability preventing him from speaking. That he was a normal guy despite not talking. That he didn't have a humiliating mental lock that had persisted since childhood.

Have your unsatisfactory cake and eat it too, in a way, he supposed.

* * *

Gordon stood nearby an ice cream stall on the street and peered at the selection. He wrote down quickly on his notepad and approached the stall. The vendor, a young man with a plethora of pimples, barely gave him a “ _hah?_ ” in greeting and waited expectantly. Gordon showed him the notepad and smiled. A smile always eased people.

The boy squinted at the notepad, looked up at Gordon with a cocked eyebrow, shrugged and went to work. “One strawberry, comin’ right up.”

With the cone of strawberry ice cream in hand, Gordon went to sit down at the park nearby. The temperature hadn’t let up from yesterday, insistent on staying at the same 90 degrees at day. People were out and about, dressed lightly. The wind was a pleasant breeze on Gordon’s bare arms. The Rio Grande sparkled with the sun.

He reminisced when he had been a kid, maybe seven years old or so, had had a couple of quarters to his name and had wanted to buy ice cream. No matter how badly he had wanted it, he couldn’t approach the stall. He had squeezed the coins in his hand, but the more he tried to force himself to walk, the more he trembled and his brain shut down. Frustrated and helpless tears had come to his eyes, and fleeing had been the only thing he could do.

Adult Gordon took a small bite of his ice cream and winced at the surge of cold in his teeth.

* * *

“Mr. Freeman, welcome.”

Gordon looked away from the dark mahogany panelling on the wall and stood up. His steps were muffled by a thick, intricately patterned rug as he approached the woman dressed in a neat tunic to shake her hand. She indicated towards an open door, and Gordon entered.

He had counted his lucky stars to have found a speech therapist so close to Black Mesa, even if said therapist had been working with only children before him. She had turned out to be inquisitive and willing to learn, so they had hit it off quickly and continued their partnership. He still missed his previous, and first, therapist he had seen back at M.I.T., who had come up with the idea of using American Sign Language in the first place to help him communicate. But he was in Massachusetts, and here was Gordon in New Mexico, so it couldn’t be helped.

The woman, Silvia was her name, closed the door, and as she did so, Gordon felt all tension leave him like nothing had ever existed. Her office was spacious and homely, of dark pleasant colors and heavy soft furniture, most of which held eye-catching items and toys and books for children. The two took their usual places on the lounge chairs in the middle of the room.

“Well, Gordon,” Silvia started. “It’s been two months again.”

“Yes, it has,” said Gordon out loud with his voice. He flinched inside a little at the sound of it.

“Time sure does fly; it feels like it was only yesterday that you were here. How has work been for these past two months?”

“I feel increasingly frustrated,” he replied readily, straight to the point, having already thought out the themes he wanted to go over. “The supervisors don’t dare to assign me on any important tasks.”

“Hm. Did they tell you the reasons for this?”

“... No. Well, I haven’t asked, but I can deduce it’s because I can’t speak. People think I would be a hindrance to the team efficiency, having to put in so much effort to change their communication styles with me that it’s a hiccup on the work flow.”

“You _are_ the newest addition to the team, still.”

“But for how long will I be ‘the new guy’ only? I want to accomplish things that make a difference, that have lasting impacts on the future, and not be stuck writing reports. I know I can do it.”

“But…?”

“But the others don’t know it.”

“Hm. Do you still feel like not telling your coworkers about the mutism is the correct way?”

Gordon looked down at the tips of his loafers. To people outside Black Mesa, he could tell. He has toyed with the idea often. People he would never meet again, that were sufficiently far away and without associations to his home base of Black Mesa. That he could, like flicking a switch, turn into a person that didn’t fumble with the everyday act of speaking, like a small child still learning. The scientists, on the other hand, could be a petty bunch. To work with the best and work at the best of facilities, you needed to have a high opinion of yourself. Gordon did value himself and his contributions greatly, but the scientists could be bloodhounds after any miniscule sign of weakness in anyone among their ranks. To see the same faces everyday, if he were to subject himself to that kind of constant evaluation and opinions, and to not get to escape it even after the workday because living at Black Mesa was living packed in like sardines… No, he wouldn’t do it. This was his secret, the one bit of privacy he demanded for himself.

He changed the subject.

“... I tried to make some progress today. The bus driver, I mentioned to you? I wanted to say hello to her, but other people came to wait in line before I could.”

“I am glad you made the effort! What was the situation like, leading up to that point?”

Gordon’s foot swung up and down as he thought back to the bus stop. A clock ticked on in the silence.

“I’ve gotten some results from the grounding method. I was skeptical at first, as it sounded juvenile, but it lessened the mental anxiety symptoms, and thus made me feel more at ease than I would have been without.”

“So you would say, to quote jargon in your field, that I had ‘hypothesized correctly’?”

Gordon laughed. “I would say, yes. And the physiological facts you and your predecessor have presented to me, they’ve helped me understand on a logical level what is going on. Even if I can’t overcome it.”

“I assumed it would help a man of science and considerable intellect such as you. You’ve taught me a lot, as well. I’m still embarrassed of the childish methods I tried to introduce to you in the beginning.”

They shared a laugh. “Such was to be expected,” said Gordon, “I realize I’m quite the anomaly in your field.”

“You’ve made a considerable contribution to research. If I'd only get my peers to listen to me, next…"

Gordon sighed. “Anything for science, I suppose.”

* * *

Gordon Freeman sat at a bus stop in Albuquerque and was not sweating. In fact, he was shivering in his polo shirt and khaki shorts. The sun was, once again, a sliver of light shining from behind buildings, but tonight was going to be chilly. The hustle and bustle of daytime had slowed down to a murmur of cars and people spending the evening.

The familiar bus approached and Gordon glanced down at his watch. She was fifteen minutes late. He stood up, grabbing his luggage. Through the bus’ windshield, he saw her smile at him and sign a 'hello', as per usual. He signed back.

He didn’t feel like making the effort to say hello to her today. He wanted to go to his dorm, close the door behind him and just sleep in peace.

The bus door opened, and her smile was wide. “ _¡Hola_ , Gordon! I’m late, I know!” She craned her neck to look at the stop. “Looks like you’re the only one boarding today!”

Gordon gave her a smile, entered the bus and sat in his usual spot.

“Well,” she said and closed the bus door. “Since we’re already behind schedule and I see no one running towards us for their dear life, I think we are good to go right away!”

The engine rumbled to life and they sped off. Lights in the darkness flashed by. The swaying of the bus made Gordon doze.

“So!” her exclamation brought him back. “How was your night out!”

He blinked at her via the driver’s mirror. He huffed a breathy laughter. He knew what followed: she would suggest things to do at town, and he’d either shake his head or nod if he had done said thing, as they always did after his trips to town.

The conversation died down, and Gordon was beginning to nod off. He was roused once more by her, but her tone had changed. It was sad, melancholy.

“You know, I tried to suggest learning ASL to my sister, like how you do, but she wouldn’t have it. Said it’s not, like, the words in itself that’s the problem, but presenting her case in general. Like, she can’t even write on paper if she wants something or has an opinion. She’s just a blank face. Unimportant, irrelevant.”

Gordon said nothing.

She continued: “You’re lucky, in a way, Gordon. You’re not a pushover in the slightest.”

Being _‘lucky’_ was indeed a matter of perspective, Gordon found.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Scientists are a petty bunch’, says Gordon while complaining pettily about scientists.
> 
> A great source of research has been the book Selective Mutism In Our Own Words by Carl Sutton.
> 
> Big kisses to my beta and muse, ahillamon.


End file.
